Monster Within
by PersephoneQ
Summary: Suppose that Dean came back from Hell with the same problem Sam did-that is, he had a demon breathing down his neck, constantly making his days a living Hell. How would he deal? Would he? Who would his "inner monster" be? Can Sam help him through it?


Disclaimer: I don't own anything that doesn't have a nice little label with my name on it, and currently, none of this below (except the general concept) does. It has a sloppy, old, duct tape label with "Eric somethin'-somethin'" in big black sharpie _aaall _over it.

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**Monster Within**

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"Dean."

Dean ignored the voice and packed his things with more force than necessary into his bag, only half listening to Sam. But now even that half was fading into oblivion as he sunk further into his thoughts, trying his hardest to ignore the breath on his neck.

"Dean, look at me."

Dean wanted to disobey, he really did, but it was so hard when Sam was already on his way out the door and suddenly he was alone with his greatest fear. He gave in and looked at him out of the corner of his eye.

"There! See now, was that so hard?"

"Yes", Dean mumbled and went back to packing away shirts and pants and guns sloppily. Suddenly, cold hands worked their way sharply under his chin and jerked his face to face the other man.

"Now, now, Dean, no need to get an attitude with me. After all, you know what happens when you disobey, right?"

Dean swallowed and nodded. If he disobeyed, He would take Sam away, take Bobby away, take Cas and Crowley and Ruby and the millions of other ups and downs in this life He created for him. He would strip them from him, one by one, until all that would be left would be the knife and the cold table and the blood. And the pain; God forbid there not be pain. But, after all this time, Dean didn't really mind the pain. In fact, if it was Him giving it, he could almost look forward to it. After all, He had taught him that.

It was the losing that hurt him, the loss of every person or thing he ever held onto. Maybe if it wasn't so gradual, if it bothered him a little more, he would feel a little bit better. But it wasn't and it didn't and he didn't. Dean still woke up screaming and crying and He would be there, always there, wrapping Dean up in his long, stringy arms and comforting him with promises of never ending pain and torture where no one would count on him, no one would care for him, no one would expect anything of him. Just to scream and bleed and die slowly. That's all he would have to do.

"But you always do so much more than that, don't you Dean?"

Dean glared at Him and finally gave up on the packing in favor of turning to face the older, taller man in front of him.

"What do you want, Alastair?"

Alastair smirked languidly, moving with slick, greasy ease. It was almost graceful, in a tainted sort of way. Like the way you think a knife's smooth cuts are graceful. It was smooth and deceptive and dangerous. It was so delicate, but Dean had been with Alastair long enough to know that that grace was just the calm before the storm. Then again, everything Alastair did fell into one of those categories; the calm before, or the storm after.

The knife Alastair constantly kept in hand, Alastair's favorite knife (and later, Deans favorite as well), was at his throat instantly. Dean didn't even blink.

Alastair gave him an almost sad smile, shaking his head slowly at his once-charge, then protégé, then the-one-that-got-away.

"Dean, Dean, Dean...I thought we were past the asking dumb questions faze? C'mon, use that brain you're always so eager to conclude exists; what do I _always_want?"

Dean sighed and angled his head away from the knife, giving Alastair more space to work. He knew that the sooner he gave in, the sooner it would be over. _"Me."_

Alastair smiled and patted Deans cheek lightly. "That's my boy! Always thinking on his feet!"

Dean didn't respond and Alastair stabbed, slow and unrelenting, into Deans throat. The blade was cold and long and thick, growing thicker as it went in. At first, it was just a burn, but then Alastair dug deeper and Dean started to feel the fire that accompanied the harsh pains of having his jugular neatly and cleanly divided in two. He started having problems breathing, then stopped being able to breath at all and was on the verge of collapsing and passing out when Sam came back inside to see what took so long.

To say finding Dean on the floor, clutching his throat and turning a worrying shade of blue, was a surprise to Sam would be a major understatement. Sam was up and around to Dean in seconds, practically yelling questions at him as he tried his darnedest to pull Deans hands away from his throat. Dean was just as strong as he looked and it took a while to get Deans hands away from his throat, but when he did, Sam was surprised to find deep, sometimes skin breaking, fingernail trails on his throat, but no actual injury. Sam then assumed Dean was choking, but then realized-what was he choking _on?_

He hadn't eaten anything and wasn't eating anything before Sam had come back inside. And the only drink Dean drank nowadays was beer, and that was all in Sam's bag (unbeknownst to Dean, of course, he would have thrown a fit), so choking on liquids was out of the question. That left only air and spit, pretty much. And Sam very much doubted his brother was choking on either of those things, mostly because his brother would rather die than look like a retard, choking on air or spit*.

Therefore, with about a year of college psychology and twenty years of _Dean _psychology under his belt, Sam could safely conclude within three minutes of finding Dean that what Dean was choking on was pure stress. Whatever was hurting Dean wasn't physical; it was mental.

Sam was careful as he pulled Dean into his arms and patted his back awkwardly, trying his hardest to get Dean to calm down and realize that he was not in danger, that he could breathe again. But two minutes later found Dean turning a terrifyingly dark purple, not even seeming to register his presence. Finally, Sam decided to pull out the big guns.

Sam pulled Dean away from himself and shook his shoulders. "Dean! Dean, you have to wake up! You have to breathe, okay, cause if you don't, you'll pass out and there is no way in hell I'm dragging your fat *** all the way to the car. You hear me, Dean? I'll leave you here! I swear to God, Dean, I'll drive off and leave you here and go stop seals with Cas on my own."

Finally, Dean seemed to register Sam, his eyes moving at a snail's pace to his younger brothers face. Dean made small, heart-breaking noises as he tried desperately to get the air needed to speak.

"Fight it, Dean, _fight it!_Whatever is holding you back, just tell it to **** off, cause if you don't-if you choose whatever's in there over me-I'll leave you. And I won't come back."

And even though it hurt Sam so bad to have to comment on his brother's clingy, slightly-needy behavior lately, even though he hated having to lie to his brother, to add insult to injury, the moment Dean took that first deep breath, Sam left all his worries behind.

Dean, though, was struggling. A lot. Even as Alastair shoved the icy spike through his neck over and over, sometimes going through bone, he took deep breaths, denying himself the pleasure of release, of ending. He had to. Because Sam wanted him to, needed him to. And Dean needed himself to, too, because Sam couldn't leave him. Not here, alone, with the monster that had followed him out of his nightmares all of his life.

It had taken a while to realize it, but Dean soon understood that Alastair wasn't exactly a person or a demon, not even in Hell. Alastair was a theme, the embodiment of all of Deans fears, rolled up in a ball and thrown harshly into his stomach, leaving him bruised and broken and just barely human. Dean was continually surprised that Castiel had found anything left to save, when he came to get Dean from Hell.

Now was no different, Dean thought as he gulped breath after painful, precious breath of fresh, yet stale air. Dean was surprised, now, that after his latest attack, Sam had even tried. Dean was scared, terrified, that Sam would give up, would drop him off at a hotel or a institution or maybe just leave him on the side of the road. And then Sam would be gone. And Dean would be alone; alone with his monster.

Eventually, Dean got a rhythm going (_stab, slice, breathe, slice, remove blade, breathe, stab, slice_) and managed to push Sam off of him as he stood on shaky legs. His skin was pale, paler than normal (once it had been a nice tan color, just as his eyes had once been only slightly bloodshot and normal sized and he'd once had muscles and a decent body weight and had shaved regularly, but that all changed after Hell) and he was shaking constantly, making small moaning, shrieking sounds every once in a while when Alastair changed pace or moving to a new area.

Sam sat Dean on the bed, sitting down next to him and holding his hand and squeezing it. When Dean didn't pull away, but didn't grip his hand either, Sam started to pull away before Dean squeezed his hand harder than a pregnant woman during labor would. For the first time, Sam really looked at Dean.

He looked terrified, his eyes big and bloodshot and his body looking small and thin and powerless as it shook and jerked and rebelled against whatever his mind was doing to it.

"Oh Dean," Sam whispered. "What's happening to you? Why won't you talk to me?"

Dean turned to look at him, lips curved into a small, shaky, delicate smirk. "D-don't swi-swing that wa-ay...S-Sammy..."

Sam bit his lip to keep the tears at bay and reached over, hugging his brother tight against his chest, burying his wet face in Deans greasy blond spikes. At that moment, he didn't care that his brother would probably beat and tease him mercilessly later for this, didn't care that it might look suggestive to anyone who passed by their open motel door, didn't care that he might be hurting Dean or pissing off the monster Dean was currently trying to fight off. Sam just curled himself further around his brother, holding him tight as Dean tried his best to reciprocate.

They stayed like this for hours, Deans breath light and jumpy as he watched Alastair circle them, looking for away around his brother and to him. Eventually, Alastair had resorted to just teasing and insulting Dean, making dirty comments and nasty remarks about where they "lived", Sam, Bobby, John, Cas- everything. Everything was free game for Alastair to hate and bag on and insult until Dean himself believed it, started to hate everything Alastair hated, started to be saddened by everything that saddened his monster.

Finally, just around midnight, Alastair left. Sam was already asleep and Dean tried his hardest to rebel against his own weariness, but eventually succumbed. Almost immediately, though, he was plagued with memories of Hell, of the rack and the souls he tortured on it, of his own father, glaring angrily at him as he brought the saw down on his collar bone, spitting and shouting at him that he would never be good enough, not for Sam, not for Cas, not even for Alastair. Eventually, even he would leave Dean, because Dean was a useless, heartless, broken little robot, living solely on the commands of others. He was a weapon, and no one wanted a broken weapon.

Dean cried and whimpered in his sleep, but it was when he began tossing and turning and lightly hitting his fists on Sam's chest that Sam woke up. Deans normally pale face was red with the tears that ran down in. Sam's heart broke for his brother and he wiped the tears from his face, holding his brothers face against his shoulder with one hand and holding his clenched, punching fists in the other.

"What's wrong, Dean?", he whispered. "What are you dreaming about that's so bad?"

Sam wasn't expecting a reply, but what he got was enough to bring tears to his own face.

"No, Daddy, I'm not...not u-useless...I can..he wouldn't...I am not alone...I am not all alone...alone...", Dean muttered, crying hard into Sam's shoulder at the last room, waking himself up with his tears. "Sam? Sammy, where are you?"

Sam lifted Deans head and smiled sadly down at his brother. "I'm right here, Dean, and I swear thats where I will always be. I will never leave you, Dean, ever."

Dean frowned, almost pouted, in confusion. "But, you said-"

Sam gripped Deans chin harder and hated himself all over again for the expression of pure sorrow and loss in Deans face. "I know what I said, Dean, but I wasn't serious. I was trying to get you to wake up and see me and breathe again...I didn't mean it, Dean. I would never leave you, not for all the money or freedom in the world."

Dean sniffled and wiped his face, then gave a sort of half-smile. "What about women?"

"What?"

"Would you leave me for all the women in the world?"

Sam pretended to think this over, then shrugged. "That's kind of vague. There are a lot of ugly, hateful woman in the world. Make in nice and pretty women and then we'll talk."

Dean snorted, then rested back against Sam's chest. "You going to go back to sleep or do I have to sing to you?"

"You? Singing? With your taste in music? I think not." Sam was quiet a bit and Dean was almost asleep when Sam practically whispered, "Um, don't think I'm saying you can't, but...are you okay with sleeping like this?"

It took Dean a minute to realize what Sam was talking about, then he felt Sam's arms around his back and his own arms around Sam's neck and their legs randomly thrown across the others hips and tangling with the others legs as they battled to get closer and father away from Deans inner monster. Normally, Dean would be mortified by how girly and weird and...chick-flick-like this was and the fact that he was doing it willingly and had been for nearly seven hours. But now, it was comforting. It made him feel so close and cared for and not-alone that he didn't care that is was girly or weird. All that mattered was that he was warm and tired and safe and in the company of someone who cared.

So Dean shrugged and said, "I don't mind if you don't."

Sam nodded and Dean fell back asleep in seconds. This time, Sam stayed up until the sun rose, watching and caring for his older brother. Surprisingly, Dean didn't have any nightmares.

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*NOTE:_ that was not a cruel or mean-spirited joke against retarded people. I don't know if its the same where you're from, but where i live, "retard" or "tard" is used as more of a ruder form of "idiot" than as a medical term for the mentally handicapped. While I do not particularly like or condone the use of such a serious word in such a negative connotation, the use of it here is simply due to the use of it elsewhere. If any of you find it offensive, take heart in this; I often choke on air and spit, so if anyone is the "retard" here, it's me :)_

Okay, so this was actually a really old little thing and I have no idea what the original plans for it were, but it's a story now, probably my first ever real one-shot. It was pretty fun to write and I kind of love/hate Sam in this. What do _you_ think? **Leave a review** and let me know!

Lots of (platonic) love,

Perse. Q.


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